Can’t I trust you to do anything right, Breanna?” Mom says in a voice as cold as her anger is hot, completely unmoved by my tears. I’m used to disappointing my mother. It feels like I’ve done it all my life. And I realize in that moment that maybe I am as stupid as she always tells me. Because deep down, I’d had this small shred of hope, some sick deluded fantasy, that she’d say I did the right thing by telling the truth.

Once, I did a halfhearted job of sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor, and that’s the first place she checked because she knew I’d do a lousy job because “that’s the kind of kid you are.” As in I’m not a “go-getter who makes her own luck” like she is, so I’m “never going to get anywhere in this world.” She knew all that because of two missed Cheerios and a small dust bunny.

Difficult. Everything is difficult at the moment. Sleeping is difficult because I keep having horrible dreams. Waking up is difficult because I can’t sleep. Looking in the mirror is difficult because I hate the person I see.

Maybe that’s what praying is all about. Maybe it’s not just asking God to forgive us for bad things or asking Him for good things. Maybe it’s just the act of praying and feeling that there’s someone up there listening that makes us feel better and less helpless.

Elmo is telling kids about how great it is to share. Oh, Elmo, you poor, deluded little red fur ball. You don’t have a clue, do ya, li’l buddy? Kids are way meaner than Muppets.

You look like a drug addict,” Mom says. “It washes you out completely.” “Wow. Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, swallowing the lump her words bring up in my throat. “I can always count on you to build up my self-confidence.” “Would you feel better if I lied to you?” Mom asks. “Okay, fine. You look like Miss America. There, happy?

No matter which road you decide to take on your life’s journey, just make sure God is an intimate part of it.

But then I see his face. See the words he wrote. See them on my computer screen. See them etched into my brain. Feel them etched into my heart. Know them deep in my soul. Remembering. Don’t want to remember. Don’t want to live. Tear rolls down my cheek.

Okay, back to business." Billy grins, leaning back against the cushions. "Give me two more characteristics of living things. I'll give you a hint: you left out the most fun one."Fun one? Im picturing the textbook, responsiveness, growth, complex organizations, metabolism, responsiveness... Oh!I hit Billy. "You are such a perv!""Who me? What are you talking about?""The most fun one? Reproduction?""Hey, even microorganisms gotta have fun, right?

Just you wait, Abby Johnston. My coolness will hit you like a tsunami. You will be carried along by its raging power. You will be turned into a freaking icicle by the frostiness of my cool.