Impulse (Impulse, #1)

by Ellen Hopkins

What is friendship, anyway? I have no clue, never lingered long enough in one place before,

I wonder if what I did made her hurt as much as she hurt me. Only fair, to trade hurt. But life isn’t fair.

I think God cares more about how you treat others than who you sleep with.

I may very well be crazy, but the manager at McDonald’s doesn’t need that information to decide if I’m safe to flip burgers.

I wish I could give every kid the kind of childhood I didn’t have—one filled with toys, warmth, love.

Not only do I love her, but, funny as it sounds, I think I’m in love with her.

how else can I explain the way I break out in a sweat when she’s near, the way I look for opportunities to make that happen?

Why do I feel like I’ve known him forever? Were we friends in another lifetime? I’ve read about reincarnation. (Had to hide the books so Mama wouldn’t find them— she’d have skinned me alive!) It doesn’t sound so unreasonable.

I’m not sure what I believe in, Vanessa, other than there has to be a better reason for living than what I’ve seen so far.

Such an incredible waste of energy, to work your ass off for sixty years, then shrivel up, die, and be nothing more than a memory—if you’re lucky enough to leave someone behind who will remember you. There must be more. Don’t you think?

I’m neither up nor down today, just cruising in shades of gray—a cold, colorless place, something like being dead, I guess. Maybe I am dead and just don’t know it yet.

“All women have an evil side. One minute they’ve got their tongue down your throat, the next they slice you wide open.”

One minute you’re solid, the next you’re like water. Boiling water . . .

“Forever has no meaning when you’re living in the moment. I wasn’t ready for that moment to end.”

Just thinking about home. Will I ever want to go back there?

these freaky people feel like family.

Thanks for saying hi. It was feeling lonely in this noisy room. You always seem to know when I could use a friend.

in my life, love is rare. You are rare—someone who bothered to scratch under my skin and find the person beneath.

Why must every memory, once sweet, dead-end in such ugliness?

Love means holding on to someone just as hard as you can because if you don’t, one blink and they might disappear forever.

As everything falls very quiet, something silent calls to me. Will the damnable steel never leave me alone, never quit whispering sweet nothings to me?

Change. I guess that really is one thing you can count on. . . .