“Tar-heart baby, let me be, let me shine bright, stop making fun of me. Stop bringing up my past un-funs.”

“No one likes you tar-heart baby, no one likes un-fun-ness.”

“Stop pretending. You wanted to be real right? This hurts, this is what it feels like, this is the growing up, the stoping pretending, the false past tap-dancing. This is the owning. This is the no-i-won’t-be-performing, this is growing out of the glamour and back into the tattered shabby mis-constructed hearts shadow. This is me owning. This is me admitting. This is me realing-up, maning-up. growing up, wanting up.”

“What had I done? Where was my fun? I wanted play, I wanted sun, he was the opposite —I called him Zum because he’s an un-fun, the sort of mean-fun bully on the playground-fun. Mean Mr. Zum.This was madness, this was badness this was sadness this was too much un-fun-ness.”

“Poor Mr. Zum now he was un-fun and had no funs left who wanted to entertain him. What a qerbackle, what an un-fun pickle to be in.”

“Overexposing my innards to careless hearts and hands is a practice I am prepared to stop performing.”

“I was supposed to act breezy, but my fingertips are shaking, and my heart won’t stop its rapid beating.I’m giving in. I cannot cave.”