By Louise Rozett
Rose Zarelli, self-proclaimed observe geek and offended woman, has a few confessions to make...
1. I'm livid for all time. Why? My dad died. My mother slightly talks. My brother deserted us. i believe I'm allowed to be irate, don't you?
2. I make humans furious on a regular basis. wish an instance? I kissed Jamie Forta, a badass man who might be courting a cheerleader. She is now enraged and out for blood. Mine.
3. highschool may besides be Mars. My ally has been changed by way of an alien, and that i see red forever. (Mars is crimson and "seeing red" skill being angry--get it?)
Here are another vocab phrases that describe my existence: Inadequate. unbearable. Intolerable.
(Don't recognize what they suggest? glance them up yourself.)
(Sorry. That was once rude.)
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Additional resources for Confessions of an Angry Girl
I never thought he was a bad person or anything, but, to be honest, I did think he was kind of a doofus. My problem with him舒the thing you could say sort of constituted his doofy-os-itude舒was that he fancied himself some kind of big-time radical. 舡 And look, there舗s nothing wrong with that as a general sort of thing. It舗s just that Mr. Sherman sort of took it to the Crazy Place, if you know what I mean. See, Mr. Sherman舗s point of view was that nothing was really good or bad, it was just a matter of how you thought about it.
Sherman stopped waving his arms around. He smiled. 舠Ah, my zombielike friend, that舗s exactly the wrong question. The question is: What part of it can you prove to be true? Prove that we舗re created equal. 舡 舠That舗s not what it means. 舡 舠Prove it, Charlie. You can舗t. It舗s just something Americans have come to believe, that舗s all. Other people believe other things. You can舗t even prove that we were created, that we have a Creator in the first place. It舗s just something you were told and so you believe it.
The motorcycle had nearly stopped by that time and though the impact was hard enough to send a shock of pain through me, it wasn舗t hard enough to do any real damage. The next second, I had the bike righted. I gave it gas again. I felt it dart forward under me, racing a little way along the sidewalk until I spotted an opening between parked cars. The bike made the gap. I bounced hard over the curb. I rolled out into the street, already gathering speed again. There was a wild screaming blare: a car horn.
Confessions of an Angry Girl by Louise Rozett