Oh my

They're called fun-size for a reason.

Today my mum made me drive her to drop of cookies for my brother's bake sale to pay for a camping trip, or whatever. And right there, across the street, was this homeless man. And I'm thinking, why aren't we baking cookies to raise money to buy this guy a home instead of some stupid camping trip, which will just be sad anyway.

I mean, I never go on trips and I don't even want to, but, like, I know you're going to say that the seventh grade science camp was a camp but it wasn't outdoors, so it doesn't even count.

When I got home, I burned the word "camping" in Scrabble tiles and then I wrote a poem entitled "23 Points of Sorrow", and then I burned that, too. And then the smoke alarm went off; I am the smoke alarm: People walk by me and never check my batteries, and when I scream everyone just runs away.