You is good, You is smart, You is important.

I sat in the study parlor and wrote for hours-mostly term papers but also short stories, bad poetry, episodes of Dr. Kildare, Pall Mall jingles, letters of complaint, ransom notes, love letters to boys I'd seen in class but hadn't the nerve to speak to, all of which I never mailed. Sure, I dreamed of having football dates, but my real dream was that one day I would write something that people would actually read.

I used to dash by, feeling like a dartboard, a big red bull's-eye that Mother pinged darts at.

Find I can get my point across a lot better writing them down

I slip off my flats and walk down the front porch steps, while Mother calls out for me to put my shoes back on, threatening ringworm, mosquito, encephalitis. The inevitability of death by no shoes. Death by no husband.

If chocolate was a sound, it would've been Constantine's voice singing. If singing was a color, it would've been the color of that chocolate.