My mother is worried because I sleep with my dagger.

Apparently, "I" would be located more on the right side of my brain; I noticed he expresses himself more with images than words.
Damned be Bernard Werber! Even though is last book was $#%^, I am now torn between my hatred of autists and my admiration for him
Damn! I never noticed how much my dagger tastes like blood.
Sudden urge to hurt something. Feel the wrath of my Mountain Dew-soaked dagger, notebook
I'm really starting to wonder wether it was salsa or cheese in that blue-brown mossy jar on my couch.
Why did I ever sacrifice intelligence for sociability? Now I regret it so much...