Cracked Up to Be

The sooner you make a mistake and learn to live with it, the better. You're not responsible for everything. You can't control the way things end up.

How does it feel to know that even at my worst, you're still not good enough?

Imagine 4 years. Four years, two suicides, one death, one rape, two pregnancies (one abortion), three overdoses, countless drunken antics, pantsings, spilled food, theft, fights, broken limbs, turf wars–every day, a turf war–six months until graduation and no one gets a medal when they get out. But everything you do here counts. High school.

The problem with alienating, self-destructive behavior is people get it into their heads it’s a cry for help. It wasn’t.

I don't like you with Becky. She's not a very nice girl.' 'I don't like you with Jake. He's not me.

Everyone should know--there's no such thing as a decent human being. It's just an illusion. And when it's gone, it's really gone.

If I can do things right, I don't see why everyone else can't.

I mean, you know how it is. You chase a bottle of sleeping pills with a bottle of Jack Daniel's and life's never the same, no matter how many times you try to tell people it was just an accident.

Jake and Chris talk through art and discover they have so much in common it's amazing. Like, They Could Be Boyfriends If They Didn't Like Vaginas So Much Amazing.

I elbow my way through the mass of people to get to my locker because there's something immensely satisfying about the toughest part of my arm connecting with the softest part of everyone else.

Becky, you're only standing there because I decided I didn't want to.

...We’re working with paint today and I pick the easel next to Jake’s. It thrills him. “What do you want?” “I want to apologize if you’re offended by the way I am,” I tell him. “But that’s the way I am with everyone. I was just trying to make you feel welcome.” “That’s the crappiest apology I’ve ever heard.” “Well, that’s because I’m not really sorry.” He rolls his eyes. “Right.

I take a deep breath. It smells suspiciously like bullshit in here.

Hey, let’s give her some space. Get back to the game, guys,” Chris says. Thank God for him, just this once. “And cheerleading. Get back to that, too.” No one moves. “Okay, fuck off, basically, is what I’m saying. Fuck off!

I was perfect... and then I wasn't.

You think I ever stopped wanting to die after the motel?" I ask. "You think a feeling like that just goes away?

You're not responsible for everything, Parker. You can't control the way things end up. Stop trying.

Uh, what are you doing?' 'What does it look like I'm doing?' Jake asks, settling into the seat beside me. The bus jerks forward. 'I'm sitting beside you.' 'No, you're not. Your seat is in the middle. Nice try, though.' He has the audacity to ignore me, sets his book bag on his lap and rummages through it. After a minute, he pulls out a folded sheet of paper and hands it to me. I unfold it. 'A love letter? How sweet.' 'No.' He turns pink. 'It's just something I found on the Internet-' 'Porn? You shouldn't have.

I didn't want to be popular because it was easier; I wanted to be popular because in high school that's the best thing you can be: perfect. Everything else is shit.

Oh" She seems relieved. "So you weren't—" "Don't worry, Ms.Grey. I wasn't drinking, smoking, toking or snorting in school. I keep the recreational drug use at home where it belongs.

Cardboard cutouts of cheerleaders operated by arthritic monkeys would move more fluidly.

The fall takes no time and forever.

You know how you feel when you meet someone and they just give you the impression they're living on this entirely different planet from everyone else? That's sort of how I felt when I met you.

Mom and Dad exchange a nervous glance and have a telepathic conversation about it. I hear every word. Do we let her out? It's past curfew. True, but look at that—at least she asked! I know! I can hardly believe it! She could have sneaked out, but she asked! I know! We're good parents! "What time will you be back?" Dad asks.

Anyway," Jake says. I turn back to him. “I just wanted to start over a good note, that’s all.” I have to put this poor guy out of his misery. “Look, Jake, I’m not in the market for –“ I almost say a boyfriend, which is true, but this is even truer: “People”.

Yeah, sure,” I say, and then, for good measure: “Whatever.

You get away with a lot, even after you're caught.

it's blindingly awful and awfully satisfying all at the same time.

I don't have time for the 'things change speech, Parker." "So give me the CliffNotes version.

I get caught up in outcomes. I convince myself they're truths. No one will notice how wrong you are if everything you do ends up right. The rest becomes incidental. So incidental that, after a while, you forget. Maybe you are perfect. Good. It must be true. Who can argue with results? You're not so wrong after all. So you buy into it and you go crazy maintaining it. Except it creeps up on you sometimes, that you're not right. Imperfect. Bad. So you snap your fingers and it goes away. Until something you can't ignore happens and you see it all over yourself. And there's only one thing left to do.