Stupid how the mind will try to distract itself.

I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.

There are no happy endings, only breaks in the regular action.

Popularity's a weird thing. You can't really define it, and it's not cool to talk about, but you know it when you see it. Like a lazy eye, or porn.

The worst is knowing I can't tell anybody what's happening -or what's happened- to me. Not even my mom.

That's the way I feel, at least: like there's a real me and a reflection of me, and I have no way of telling which is which.

I don't understand how everything changes, how the layers of your life get buried. Impossible. At some point, at some time, we must all explode.