Nostalgia tastes like honey, and you enjoy it, but you privately worry about the little bee's legs you're sure are stuck in the comb.

Happiness crunches and cracks under your teeth and makes you smile for no reason. You feel guilty later, though.

Anger dents walls and strangles kittens, even while it sleeps. It rips the seashells off of little bunny sculptures.

Hate wears dresses and likes to play with dolls or is a brute athlete who likes to hurt people - but either way it loathes originality.

Lust can trap you in closets, or make you stare at 7-year-olds, or make you try to fling yourself off balconies if you think about it.

Pleasant surprises are little cricket erasers handed to you by someone you thought hated you.

Goals are purple pencils with glitter pasted around the edges and when you're about to get them the rules are changed.

Motivation is always something you hate - be it blue and white skirts, little pokemon bandaids, or a kid who says the words "fucking faggot" while you blow the seeds off a dandilion.

True friends are the ones who can fling you into the surf and run and you forgive them for it. You can call them a chickenfucker or vice versa and it'll be laughed off.

False friends are the ones who you privately adore and then they run away over the asphalt when they find out what you are. After that they don't speak to you.

The people you should surround yourself with know when to say "male" or "female" about you, even if little kids ask stupid questions.

The people who get massacred in a fast-food joint by some wild-eyed vagrant are the ones who threaten to spread the truth about you to the school.

The ones who get killed in gang wars are the ones who tell you they'll beat you up - and do - but only when your friends aren't around.

And when you get right down to it, life is pretty damn worthless.

But when has that ever stopped me?