Shug

Some girls are pretty, and it’s like they were destined for it. They were meant to be pretty, and as for the rest of us, well, we get to exist on the outer edges of life. It’s like moths. They’re the same as butterflies, aren’t they? They’re just gray. They can’t help being gray, they just are. But butterflies, they’re a million different colors, yellow and emerald and cerulean blue. They’re pretty. Who’d dare kill a butterfly? I don’t know of a single soul who’d lift a finger against a butterfly. But most anybody would swat at a moth like it was nothing, and all because it isn’t pretty. Doesn’t seem fair, not at all.

People are gonna disappoint you sometimes. We’re flawed creatures. Not one of us is perfect, not even you, and you’ve gotta let people mess up and then you’ve gotta forgive them. That’s just life.

Some girls are pretty and they were born for it but no matter what always be yourself because people might see the wrong side of you

Things can’t stay the same forever, Annemarie. People change; they grow up. That’s the way it’s supposed to happen.

As I bicycle home, it starts to rain, cold, almost-snow kind of rain, and I’m glad. I can blame my wet cheeks on the rain.

There is something about walking into a room full of boys that makes you feel exposed, inadequate, like you come up short in every way that matters. It didn't used to be like this, and I don't know when it changed, but now it feels like it was always this way.

All of this love crap makes me want to puke.

people who don’t face their problems head-on are the worst kind of cowards.

When something that terrible, that horrible happens to you, you don’t want to talk about it with anyone. You want to bury it deep inside you and let it rest in peace. You want to forget it ever happened. You want to stay home from school.

I am wearing an old yellow sundress of Celia's, and I have tied my hair back with green ribbon. I think I look real nice. And all they see is the cake.

People will love you or hate you for being different, but who’s to say which way it’ll go? You never know. It’s completely arbitrary.

it’s hard to believe everything won’t be this way forever—the two of us on our bikes going

When something that terrible, that horrible happens to you, you don't want to talk about it with anyone. You want to bury it deep inside you and let it rest in peace. You want to forget it ever happened.

Daddy thinks that Mama is everything a woman should be: beautiful, clever, charming. Beauty has a way of making the bad things tolerable. When Mama tilts her green eyes at you, it's hard to remember why you were mad in the first place.

Some girls are pretty, and it's like they were destined for it. They were meant to be pretty, and as for the rest of us, well, we get to exist on the outer edges of life. It's like moths. They're the same as butterflies, aren't they? They're just grey. They can't help being grey, they just are. But butterflies, they're a million different colours, yellow and emerald and cerulean blue. They're pretty. Who'd dare kill a butterfly? I don't know of a single soul who'd life a finger against a butterfly. But most anybody would swat at a moth like it was nothing, and all because it isn't pretty. Doesn't seem fair, not at all.

Then she'll drink. Sometimes it's like there's this well of sadness inside her, and she has to drink to fill it up. And then sometimes it's like there's a monster inside of her, and drinking's the only thing that will calm it down. And sometimes she drinks just because.