There is only one things in this world shittier than biting it from cancer when you're sixteen, and that's having a kid who bites it from cancer.

Tuesday—we had school for the first time. Madame O’Malley had a moment of silence at the beginning of French class, a class that was always punctuated with long moments of silence, and then asked us how we were feeling. “Awful,” a girl said. “En français,” Madame O’Malley replied. “En français.

The consequences of being un-cool feel so big that a lot of times you end of not finding ways to have open and honest conversations.

Me: "If you want me to be a teenager, don't send me to Support Group. Buy me a fake ID so I can go to clubs, drink vodka, and take pot." Mom: "You don't take pot, for starters." Me: "See, that's the kind of thing I'd know if you got me a fake ID.

I can't be you. You can't be me. You can imagine another well—but never quite perfectly, you know?

See, popularity is complicated. You have to spend a lot of time thinking about liking; you have to really like being liked, and also sort like being disliked.

Y'all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.