Quotes About Individuality

I would never be popular. I didn't want to be; I liked being shy. I'd never be the smartest or the hottest or the happiest. By eighth grade you start to figure out your limits.

They yell at me because I can't see what they see. Nobody can explain to me why my eyes work different than theirs. Nobody can make it stop.

Don't expect to make a difference unless you speak up for yourself.

I can't do everything for you. You must walk alone to find your soul.

The light beyond my eyes flashflashflashes with a hundred futures for me. Doctor. Ship's captain. Forest ranger. Librarian. Beloved of that man or that women or those children or those people who voted for me or who painted my picture. Poet. Acrobat. Engineer. Friend. Guardian. Avenging whirlwind. A million futures--not all pretty, not all long, but all of them mine. I do have a choice - p. 271

You must walk alone to find your soul.

I keep thinking that if I could just unzip my skin, step out of this body, then I would see who I really am.

Everyone is born a freak, notes Hayley. Every newborn baby, wet and hungry and screaming, is a fresh-hatched freak who wants to have a good time and make the world a better place. . . . Most teenagers wind up in high school. And high school is where the zombification process becomes deadly.

I think you have a lot to say. I'd like to hear it.

I didn't fit. I was a different size, a different shape. I kept trying to squeeze into a body, a skin suit, that was too small. It rubbed me the wrong way. I blistered. I callused. I scarred over and it kept hurting. I would never fit. But, really, I didn't want to fit. That's why it was hard.

I doubt trees are ever told to 'be the screwed-up ninth-grader.'

Bologna girl, that's me.

They mean hot like 'I'm too good for you I got my own money don't be frontin' me.' You're more like 'Be my boyfriend I'll make you cookies come meet my dad ' know what I mean

If I ever form my own clan, we'll be the Anti-Cheerleaders. We will not sit in the bleachers. We will wander underneath them and commit mild acts of mayhem.

Are you a man-whore? I asked as the loudest group of them teetered away on their high heels. (High heels? Really? At seven thirty in the morning? Shouldn't you actually have breasts before you start wearing heels?)

So why does everyone make such a big hairy deal about me not talking? Maybe I don't want to incriminate myself. Maybe I don't like the sound of my voice. Maybe I don't have anything to say.

You look like yourself. Nobody else. Trust me, that's a good thing.

I lean into the mirror. Eyes after eyes after eyes stare back at me. Am I in there somewhere? A thousand eyes blink.

Nothing is perfect. Flaws are interesting.

We fall into clans: Jocks, Country Clubbers, Idiot Savants, Cheerleaders, Human Waste, Eurotrash, Future Fascists of America, Big Hair Chix, the Marthas, Suffering Artists, Thespians, Goths, Shredders. I am clanless.

Sono lo spazio tra le mie cosce e la luce che ci passa attraverso. Sono il topo di biblioteca che si rifugia nei romanzi fantasy. Sono il freak del circo, intrappolato nella cera d'api. Sono le ossa che vogliono, racchiuse in una cornice di porcellana.

When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside- walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack, or cancer, or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job.

Halloween - the day when we could pretend to be whatever we wanted - seemed to be letting everyone be who they really were.

Of course I want to be a model. I want to paint my eyelids gold. I saw that on a magazine cover and it looked amazing-- turned the model into a sexy alien that everyone would look at but nobody dared touch.