Welcome to the only class that will teach you how to survive. Welcome to Art.
She even tried to teach us the difference between active voice – “I snarfed the Oreos” – and passive voice – “The Oreos got snarfed.
They keep asking questions like “What is wrong with you?” and “Do you think this is cute?” How can I answer? I don’t have to. They don’t want to hear anything I have to say.
I lean into the mirror. Eyes after eyes after eyes stare back at me. Am I in there somewhere? A thousand eyes blink.
I try to read while eating alone, but the noise gets between my eyes and the page and I can’t see through it.
My timing is perfect, and I wind up in a traffic jam. The cars around me are driven by fat cows and bellowing bulls. We roll along, six mph. I can run faster than this. We brake. They chew their cud and moo into their phones until the herd shifts gears and rolls forward again.
We fall into clans: Jocks, Country Clubbers, Idiot Savants, Cheerleaders, Human Waste, Eurotrash, Future Fascists of America, Big Hair Chix, the Marthas, Suffering Artists, Thespians, Goths, Shredders. I am clanless.
I knew I wouldn’t get an invitation. I would be lucky to get an invitation to my own funeral, with my reputation.
If you don’t learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!!!
Mr. Freeman says fear is a great place to begin art.
Never underestimate dainty little ladies.
Out there on the edge, the spinning of the Earth had slowed to give us the time we need to start finding each other again.
I can’t stop biting my lips. It looks like my mouth belongs to someone else, someone else, someone I don’t even know.
The yellow sun rose, a giant balloon filled with prayers and hopes and promise.
I have survived. I am here.
Cutting dead frogs is cool.
It isn’t August. The moon is asleep and I’m sitting on my porch roof like a frozen gargoyle, wondering if the sun is going to blow off the world today and sleepin.
My bed is sending out serious nap rays.
I would be lucky to get an invitation to my own funeral, with my reputation.
She says suicide is for cowards. This is an uglynasty Momside. She bought a book about it. Tough love. Sour sugar. Barbed velvet. Silent talk. She leaves the book on the back of the toilet to educate me. She has figured out that I don’t say too much. It bugs her.