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.
I wish I had cancer. I will burn in hell for that, but it’s true.
It is my first morning of high school. I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.
My first class is biology. I can’t find it and get my first demerit for wandering the hall. It is 8:50 in the morning. Only 699 days and 7 class periods until graduation.
I want to go to sleep and not wake up, but I don’t want to die.
It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts except the small smiles and blushes that flash across the room like tiny sparrows.
There is something about Christmas that requires a rug rat. Little kids make Christmas fun. I wonder if could rent one for the holidays.
Why not draw naked guys, just to be fair? Naked women is art, naked guys a no-no, I bet. Probably because most painters are men.
I can see us, living in the woods, her wearing that A, me with a S maybe, S for silent, S for stupid, for scared. S for silly. For shame.
Because I am still a little girl who believes in Santa and the tooth fairy and you.
This camp is a forge for the army; it’s testing our mettle. Instead of heat and hammer, our trials are cold and hunger. Question is, what are we made of?
To keep up appearances, I stomp my room and slam the door.