Depression comes in bouts. Like boxing. Dad is in the blue corner.

There will be birds and if they write your name in the sky then you can get on the buses and if they don't you have to die on the floor.

I spin around on the swivel chair and look up at the ceiling; Oliver being Oliver being Oliver being Oliver. I am suddenly aware of the separation between my-actual-self and myself-as-seen-by-others. Who would win in an arm wrestle? Who is better-looking? Who has the higher IQ?

Write a diary, imagining that you are trying to make an old person jealous.

I would never say snog. I would say osculate." She looks at me as if to say: why do you exist?

I find that the only way to get through life is to picture myself in an entirely disconnected reality.

It is strange to hear your mother talk about being human because, honestly, it's too easy to forget.