California is like a beautiful wild kid on heroin, high as a kite and thinking she's on top of the world, not knowing she's dying, not believing it even if you show her the marks.

I have no idea why I write. The old standards are: I like to express my feelings, stretch my imagination, earn money.

It seemed funny that the sunset she saw from her patio and the one I saw from the back steps was the same one. Maybe the two worlds we lived in weren’t so different. We saw the same sunset.

That's why people don't ever think to blame the Socs and are always ready to jump on us. We look hoody and they look decent. It could be just the other way around - half of the hoods I know are pretty decent guys underneath all that grease, and from what I've heard, a lot of Socs are just cold-blooded mean - but people usually go by looks.

I was desperate for something to read that dealt realistically with teenage life, and I thought others might be, too.

I gotta cut smoking or I'll never make track next year

All of a sudden it felt like people were peering over my shoulder, wondering what I would write next. I was blocked for four years.