And, I think: I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence. Of the millions, I, too, was potentially everything at birth. I, too, was stunted, narrowed, warped, by my environment, my outcroppings of heredity. I, too, will find a set of beliefs, of standards to live by, yet the very satisfaction of finding them will be marred by the fact that I have reached the ultimate in shallow, two-dimensional living — a set of values.

Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.

I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.

Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.

There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?