Perfection is a feeling; you’ll know it if you’ve ever questioned the competency of your penmanship before writing on the first page of a new notebook.

Puberty: the ultimate makeover.

Your mind adapts to what worse is. Suddenly, that thing that seemed so terrifying at first is dwarfed by the next challenge that comes your way. But you adapt again and again and again, until you find yourself fearless.

It’s times like this when I’m glad no one knows the things I do to make myself feel safe.

I’m always a slave to my thoughts, always at the mercy of what I’m not, what I can’t be.

Beauty comes from how you treat people and how you behave. But if a little lipstick makes you smile, then you should wear it and forget what anyone else thinks.

But it’s like my mind and my brain are two separate things, working against each other. I can’t get them to cooperate.

When people say weird, what they really mean is different. And difference has never been a bad thing.

Verbal vomit is the evil twin of absolute silence.

I just want to have proof that I can think straight, that I am more than the girl who believes that odd numbers will cause a catastrophe.