The stars whirled above us and the firecrackers blazed. The moon stood watch as drops of blood fell, careless seeds that sizzled in the snow.
I’m the girl who trips on the dance floor and can’t find her way to the exit. All eyes on me.
For one moment we are not failed tests and broken condoms and cheating on essays; we are crayons and lunch boxes and swinging so high our sneakers punch holes in the clouds.
I am a gluttonous, gorging failure. A waste. My body isn’t used to high-sugar carbs laced with witchcraft. It can barely cope with soup and crackers.
I believe that you’ve created a metaphorical universe in which you can express your darkest fears. In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves, and sometimes we do such a good job, we lose track of reality.
I make it through the first two weeks of school without a nuclear meltdown.
I am getting better at smiling when people expect it.
Nicole can do anything that involves a ball and whistle.
Homework is not an option. My bed is sending out serious nap rays. I can’t help myself. The fluffy pillows and warm comforter are more powerful than I am. I have no choice but to snuggle under the covers.
I just thought of a great theory that explains everything. When I went to that party, I was abducted by aliens. They have created a fake Earth and fake high school to study me and my reactions. This certainly explains cafeteria food.
Oppressive bastards, think they own the place. I told them that karma’s going to kick their asses...
I watch the Eruptions. Mount Dad, long dormant, now considered armed and dangerous. Mount Saint Mom, oozing lava, spitting flame. Warn the villagers to run into the sea.
I want to make a memorial for our turkey. Never has a bird been so tortured to provide such a lousy dinner.
Everybody told me to be a man. Nobody told me how.
Rumors are spread by jealous people.
I have entered high school with the wrong hair, the wrong clothes, the wrong attitude. And I don’t have anyone to sit with.
Can the plural possessive express the feelings in your heart? If you don’t learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!
My face becomes a Picasso sketch, my body slicing into pieces.
I want to go to sleep and not wake up, but I don’t want to die. I want to eat like a normal person eats, but I need to see my bones or I will hate myself even more and I might cut my heart out or take every pill that was ever made.
Revision means throwing out the boring crap and making what’s left sound natural.