I'm me and you're you, and all of them out there are them. And we're all so different and equally unimportant.

I feel something very small growing inside me as I look at her, and I realize in one absolutely clear moment that I don't like her at all. 'You know what?' I say. 'Forget it. I'll do the list by myself.' She stands up, swings her stupid hair about and tries to look offended. It's a trick that works with guys, but it makes no difference to the way I feel about her.

It's as if a child with a brush and too much enthusiasm has been set free with a tin of black paint inside me.

It hurts and hurts to have him this close. I feel sick with it.

Don't think you have to be good because you're the only one left. Be as bad as you like.

It was strange how words meant something when they came out of your mouth. Inside your head they were safe and silent, but once they were outside, people grabbed hold of them.

I wish I had a boyfriend. I wish he lived in the wardrobe on a coat hanger. Whenever I wanted, I could get him out and he'd look at me the way boys do in films, as if I'm beautiful.