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It was cold in my room and I took a shower and hid my underpants because they were all gross from sex. I got in my nightie and the wind was blowing outside and the window was rattling and I put on a tape and got deep under the covers. But then I couldn't sleep because all these ideas were coming into my head, like I was a terrible person and conceited and a slut and I hadn't even tried to help Darcy, who was anorexic and on speed. And everything in the world seemed like it was pressing down on me and I started to cry and I swore to be a better person and get interested in college and not smoke cigarettes and not have sex except if I really loved the person. And also not to wear eye shadow or go in the slamming pit or be insincere to my mother. But it seemed so hopeless because I had already changed so much and broken so many pacts and it just seemed like the older you got the more corrupt you became and really, if you thought about it, in terms of your morals and stuff: you were dying from the day you were born.
-Andrea Marr, from the book GIRL by Blake Nelson
love the first person narrative. kind of a modern day catcher in the rye for the indie scene :P
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And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
~Anais Nin
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