A Selection

Some of my favorite parts of my failed NANOWRIMO attempt last year:
First paragraph:
The Technicolor on the screen was displeasing to her and in all of her life this was the first time that feeling had ever taken root in her heart. She was tired, and the bags under her eyes only glorified more so the zombie-like existence she had become accustomed to as of late. As Frank Sinatra danced across her vision singing about Dolls and wearing a red carnation on his suit jacket, she felt tenderly the ridges covering her scalp; the scarred ridges that had taken the place of once silky reddish golden hair. They came from the stitches. Dropping her hand suddenly she felt ashamed sitting there with her knees tucked to her chest, the obnoxious polka-dot pajama pants unable to hide her protruding kneecaps. The skin on her hands was paler than usual and the term “day walker” could certainly be utilized by the teasing tongues of high school boys in this instance. Felicity LaHaye was an obvious victim of situational realism. The point in your teenage life where you realize that what you naively wish for isn’t always and probably shouldn’t be the planned direction of your own life. Her 11:11pm wish that day was indeed quite simple.
And so on:
On the TV screen in her darkened living room Marlon Brando and Jean Simmons were locked in a kiss so passionate it caught her attention back from that horrific memory. She wanted to vomit. She hated that she hated this scene now, when she used to fantasize about it in study hall all the time. Now all she wanted was for Marlon Brando to fall into the fountain and for the bells to give them both migraines. Felicity grabbed the package of golden Oreos next to her and the container of Nutella from the coffee table in front of her. As she moved, the muscles in her back ached and she groaned. These groans made her feel even more like the living dead.
...
“Where’s the Mountain Dew?” Dylan always made his grand entrance with an announcement about food. He was predictable too. Seeing it sitting on my bookshelf he grabbed the 2 liter and started to chug. “Hey leave some for me mister!”
...
Sitting back down on his chair while already drinking from his glass his eyes smiled at me over the rim and I felt warmer. In the entire world there could not possibly be one like my baby brother. His idiosyncrasies could be the bane of my existence one day and then the next they’d be all that kept me going. Throughout this entire ordeal he’d been right by my side. And I hoped that he never felt any regrets for driving us home that day. He’s my warrior. Yes a warrior that may sometimes decide argyle is the manliest pattern, that the Arkansas Chuggabug should have won the Wacky Races by default coolness, and that Canadian Mounties had excellent uniforms, but still a warrior with superb taste. I would never blame him for what happened. We shared the bond of having our ribs broken at the same time. That’s deep love.