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Beth McColl

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It’s June 2014 and I’ve just turned 21. Happy Birthday, me. Happy You-Made-It-21-Years. Happy You-Haven’t-Been-Happy-Since-April. The cards say Here’s to 21 More. Celebrate! Buy yourself something nice! The cards say Finally! At Last! It’s June 2014 and I am 21. It’s 2 AM and finally, at last, everyone has gone to bed. I’m not in bed. I am awake. There’s cake in the kitchen and beer bottles in the sink. There are balloons which are lit from the...
I will not forgive you. Not ever. Not ever until I’m dead. Not even then. I’m almost 9 years old. I’m hopelessly clumsy. I get a lot of bruises that summer even though I am more careful. Somebody does something unforgivable. I decide not to talk about it. There are other things that are easier to say. I’m 14 years old. My hips grow over break and when I put my school skirt on it rips...
This is how it happens. You’re going fall in love with the wrong person. You’re going to draw lines on a map that lead nowhere. You’re going to get hurt. You’re going to give your blood away for a year. You’re going to get no blood back. You are going to get your heart broken. I’m sorry if that’s not gentle. It might help to read it again in a comforting voice. Hear Morgan Freeman at...
So you think you're garbage? You think life's forgotten about you. You think you don't deserve to be happy. Because you're garbage--and not even the cool kind of garbage, like a single snakeskin boot or a doll's house full of human hair. No, you're just regular garbage; a banana skin, a candy wrapper, a tissue with gum in it. And even on the days when you know you're not tissue-gum, when you can recognize...

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