Adolescence Funny Quotes

Life is a process during which one initially gets less and less dependent, independent, and then more and more dependent.

And so really, you have given me no choice but to take you shopping by force.” She sighed, then reached up, dropping her sunglasses down from their perch on her head to cover her eyes. “Do you even realize how happy the average teenage girl would be in your shoes? I have a credit card. We’re at the mall. I want to buy you things. It’s like adolescent nirvana.” - Cora

That’s what’s special about adolescent laughter. So much, so big, over so little. You lose the ability to laugh like that as you get older. The more you know, the less funny it all becomes.

Girls get their boobs and forget they were ever so gutsy and smart. Boys, too, can display their own brand of clever and funny behavior, but let them get that first erection and they go complete moron for the next sixty years. For both genders, adolescence occurs as a kind of Ice Age of Dumbness.

Contrary to popular wisdom, bullies are rarely cowards. Bullies come in various shapes and sizes. Observe yours. Gather intelligence. Shunning one hopeless battle is not an act of cowardice. Hankering for security or popularity makes you weak and vulnerable. Which is worse: Scorn earned by informers? Misery endured by victims? The brutal May have been molded by a brutality you cannot exceed. Let guile be your ally. Respect earned by integrity cannot be lost without your consent. Don't laugh at what you don't find funny. Don't support an opinion you don't hold. The independent befriend the independent. Adolescence dies in its fourth year. You live to be eighty.

Seafood poisoning, a cigarette lit as the person is drifting off to sleep and that sets fire to the sheets or, worse, to a woollen blanket; a slip in the shower—the back of the head—the bathroom door locked; a lightning bolt that splits in two a tree planted in a broad avenue, a tree which, as it falls, crushes or slices off the head of a passer-by, possibly a foreigner; dying in your socks, or at the barber’s, still wearing a voluminous smock, or in a whorehouse or at the dentist’s; or eating fish and getting a bone stuck in your throat, choking to death like a child whose mother isn’t there to save him by sticking a finger down his throat; or dying in the middle of shaving, with one cheek still covered in foam, half-shaven for all eternity, unless someone notices and finishes the job off out of aesthetic pity; not to mention life’s most ignoble, hidden moments that people seldom mention once they are out of adolescence, simply because they no longer have an excuse to do so, although, of course, there are always those who insist on making jokes about them, never very funny jokes.

Its my experience that girls tend to be terrifically smart until they grow breasts. You may dismiss this observation as my personal prejudice, based on my own tender age, but thirteen years seems to be when human beings reach their fullest flower of intelligence, personality, and pluck. Both girls and boys... Let girls get their menstruation or boys have their first wet dream, and they instantly forget their own brilliance and talent... Girls get their boobs and forget they were ever so gutsy and smart. Boys, too, can display their own brand of clever and funny behaviour, but let them get that first erection and they go complete moron for the next 60 years. For both genders, adolescence occurs as a kind of Ice Age of Dumbness.

Its my experience that girls tend to be terrifically smart until they grow breasts. You may dismiss this observation as my personal prejudice, based on my own tender age, but thirteen years seems to be when human beings reach their fullest flower of intelligence, personality, and pluck. Both girls and bots... Let girls get their menstruation or boys have their first wet dream, and they instantly forget their own brilliance and talent... Girls get their boobs and forget they were ever so gutsy and smart. Boys, too, can display their own brand of clever and funny behaviour, but let them get that first erection and they go complete moron for the next 60 years. For both genders, adolescence occurs as a kind of Ice Age of Dumbness.

No, She's what you would call an adolescent. We need to get her back to the Vale so she can enter the Dreamless Sleep and finish the growth process. I should warn you before she wakes that this is a notoriously...perilous age." "For her? Is she in danger?" My gave swings to Tairn for the length of a terrorizing heartbeat. "No, just everyone around her. There's a reason adolescents don't bond, either. They don't have the patience for humans. Or elders. Or logic," he grumbles. "So, the same as humans." A teenager. Fabulous. "Except with teeth and, eventually, fire.

The boarding school memoir or novel is an enduring literary subgenre, from 1950s classics such as The Catcher in the Rye to Curtis Sittenfeld’s Prep. Doust’s recognisably Australian contribution to the genre draws on his own experiences in a West Australian boarding school in this clever, polished, detail-rich debut novel. From the opening pages, the reader is wholly transported into the head of Jack Muir, a sensitive, sharp-eyed boy from small-town WA who is constantly measured (unfavourably) against his goldenboy brother. The distinctive, masterfully inhabited adolescent narrator recalls the narrator in darkly funny coming-of-age memoir Hoi Polloi (Craig Sherborne)—as does the juxtaposition of stark naivety and carefully mined knowingness.’ — Bookseller+Publisher

That’s exactly a summary of what it does. To get more jargony: it does impulse control, emotional regulation, long-term planning, gratification postponements, executive function. It’s the part of the brain that attempts to tell you, “You know, this seems like a good idea right now, but trust me, you’ll regret it. Don’t do it.” It’s the most recently evolved part of our brains. Our frontal cortex is proportionately bigger and more complex than that of any other primate. And, most interesting, it’s the last part of the brain to get fully wired up. The frontal cortex is not fully online until people are, on average, about a quarter century old. It’s boggling, but it also tells you a lot about why adolescents act in adolescent ways; it’s because the frontal cortex isn’t very powerful yet. And that has an interesting implication, which is that if the frontal cortex is the last part of the brain to fully mature, by definition it’s the part least constrained by genes and most shaped by experience. So the frontal cortex is your moral barometer, if that’s the right metaphor. It’s the Calvinist voice whispering in your head. So, for example, the frontal cortex plays a central role if you’re tempted to lie about something; and if you manage to avoid that temptation, your frontal cortex had something to do with it. But at the same time, if you do decide to lie, your frontal cortex helps you to do so: “Okay, control my voice, don’t make eye contact, don’t let my face do something funny.” That’s a frontal task too. This is a very human, very complicated part of our brains.

This, while explaining to the white girls why my pressed hair could not get wet in Portland's rain, while debunking the stereotypes some of them had about people who lived there, the place that was my home, was emotionally exhausting. I spent my adolescence feeling free, loved, and beautiful at home and suffocated, interrogated, and abnormal with these girls. I learned how to contort myself - physically and emotionally - in order to fit into the confined spaces available for me. Black girls could not be too confident, too loud, too smart. Fat girls could be cute but not beautiful, could be the funny sidekick or wise truth-teller in school plays, never leading role or love interest. There was an internal tug-of-war with my self-esteem... These poems healed every aching part of the seven-year-old girl in me. They were confirmation that my mother and all those women who ever told me I was worth something were right. -- "Space to Move Around In" by Renee Watson

The idea that being drunk is funny is a myth that needs to be seriously reexamined by the entertainment industry and could easily be contributing to the high rates of binge drinking among teens

Sleep well, Gonzo?” I ask. He grins and signs something to Pete. “What did he say?” I ask Pete. “You don’t want to know,” Pete says with a grimace. He glares at Gonzo. “Watch your manners, Karl,” he warns. His voice is stern, and Gonzo hangs his head. That’s the first time I’ve heard Pete call him by his real name. Pete stands up and goes to get a fork for one of the other boys. He’s still glaring at Gonzo, and now I’m dying to know what he said to earn such disfavor from Pete. “What did I miss?” I ask, looking back and forth between them. “Some adolescent humor,” Pete grumbles, looking at Gonzo from beneath lowered lashes. Pete reaches for a salt shaker for another of the boys. “Which wasn’t amusing.” Gonzo signs something quickly to Pete. “I know that was meant for me,” Pete says quietly, staring into Gonzo’s eyes. “But she’s sitting right here, and it’s rude to talk in front of her unless I can tell her what you said.” He grumbles something and then says, “And I wouldn’t repeat what you just said for a million dollars.” He holds up his hands as though he’s saying what the fuck. “You don’t talk like that in front of girls, dude.” He jabs a fork at Gonzo. “When we’re alone, you can talk all the shit you want. And it might even be funny.” Gonzo taps me on the shoulder so I look at him. He signs something with his fist close to his chest. The color on his cheeks is high. “He said sorry,” Pete grumbles. Gonzo signs something else and then blinks his eyes at me, batting his thick lashes. “He wants to know if you forgive him.” “I’ll think about it,” I say. I still don’t know what he said, so I don’t know why I should be offended. But Pete’s so serious that I feel like I need to play along. “Gonzo, go ahead and get suctioned or whatever it is you do so we can be ready for the first activity,” Pete says. Gonzo grins and signs something. But he leaves. Pete shakes his head. More boy humor?

I DON’T KNOW! I HAVE NO FREAKIN’ IDEA. I’M ONLY FIFTEEN. I want my mom.

We advertise good friendships as part of the Complete Teenage Experience, because good friendships make for great stories. Content creators romanticize adolescent friendships the same way Hallmark movies treat love: there is a lid for every pot, a yin for every yang, and a savior for every screwup. Turn on any Netflix original movie about teenagers or read any great YA book, and you will see that the perfect sidekick (funny! supportive! quirky! endlessly loyal!) is a fixture in each teen’s life. In reality, middle school friendships play out less like Netflix originals, and more like those toy commercials that came on during Saturday morning cartoons when we were kids. As an only child, I remember yearning to have the same fun those kids were having, begging my parents for the Barbie Jeep or Hot Wheels Track until they gave in. But soon after ripping the toy from its packaging, I came to the stark realization that it was nothing like advertised. Those kids were only pretending to have fun, the set designers made the toys seem infinitely cooler than they actually were, and more often than not, we didn’t even have the right-sized batteries. What a colossal disappointment! Especially when those kids on TV looked like they were having the time of their lives.

It’s just as though one’s second self were standing beside one; one is sensible and rational oneself, but the other self is impelled to do something perfectly senseless, and sometimes very funny; and suddenly you notice that you are longing to do that amusing thing, goodness knows why; that is, you want to, as it were, against your will; though you fight against it with all of your might, you want to.

Cass snorted with laughter. “She’s a real beast with a bellyful of bedsprings. Wouldn’t wanna be the one to break her in,” he said in his thick Irish brogue. “Reminds me of that hot-blooded redhead in Omaha.” He nudged Sully with a salacious wink. “What was her name again?” Sully chuckled. “Molly.” “Oh yeah, Molly.” A broad grin of reminiscence showed on Cass’s face. “Was a real beauty, that one, wasn’t she? We should name this filly after her.” “We should,” Sully agreed, scratching the adolescent red fuzz on his chin. “Was she your horse, Cass?” Willie asked, giving the young Irishman a curious stare. “Hmm?” Not paying the boy much attention, Cass took a long drag on his cigarette. His slanted green eyes followed the mare’s nervous movements attentively. “Well, Molly?” Willie blinked with impatience. “Was she?” Cass gave him a baffled look, as if he didn’t understand the question. Then, a wide grin blazed across his angular face while smoke came drifting out of his mouth. “Yeah, she was,” he nodded, smirking, and exchanged a brief, meaningful look with Sully. “Had fire and was classy, too, like this one.” Sully hooted with laughter, and Cass joined in. “What happened to her?” Something was funny, but Willie didn’t grasp what it was. Cass took another puff, then smirked again. “Well, I kinda had to get rid of her, kid. A filly like that can take ya to an early grave, y’know. She wears ya out so utterly you’re barely able to walk afterwards.