Gym should be illegal. It's humiliating.

I doubt trees are ever told to 'be the screwed-up ninth-grader.'

In one universe, they are gorgeous, straight-teethed, long-legged, wrapped in designer fashions, and given sports cars on their sixteenth birthdays. Teacher smile at them and grade them on the curve. They know the first names of the staff. They are the Pride of the Trojans. Oops – I mean Pride of the Blue Devils. In Universe #2, they throw parties wild enough to attract college students. They worship the stink of Eau de Jocque. They rent beach houses in Cancún during Spring Break and get group-rate abortions before prom.

I am beginning to measure myself in strength, not pounds. Sometimes in smiles.

They're on their way to the foreign-language wing. That's no surprise. The foreign kids are always here, like they need to breathe air scented with their native language a couple times a day or they'll choke to death on too much American.

I want to make a memorial for our turkey. Never has a bird been so tortured to provide such a lousy dinner.

When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.