Boys don’t cry—or at least that’s what everybody’s supposed to believe.

Last night I was seriously considering whether I was a bisexual or not but I don’t think so though I’m not sure if I’d like to be and argh I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, if you like a person, you like the person, not their genitals.

Now? I'm just another female faking orgasms to make a man not feel so inadequate.

With boys there was a fundamental assumption that they had a right to be there—not always, but more often than not. With girls, Why her? came up so quickly.

Boys, Laila came to see, treated friendship the way they treated the sun: its existence undisputed; its radiance best enjoyed, not beheld directly.

Hanging out with guys in middle school is like hanging out with a drunk puppy. They obliviously say some mean things and act like dicks, but they always realize what they've done in the end and come around.