When I went to Quaker camp as an adolescent (oh yes, yes I did), my counselor used to make us say a "rose" and a "thorn" at bedtime.
We also played Capture the Flag with bandanas. Sometimes I think the secret theme of Camp Onas was "Bret Michaels."
The rose was whatever great thing had happened to you that day, and the thorn was the shittiest. A typical rose for me, at age twelve, might have been "got the flu and stayed overnight at the infirmary, which meant I was excused from Capture the Flag," while a thorn might have been "left boob sprouted today in communal shower; right stubbornly dormant."
I don't do rose and thorns anymore, first and most obviously because that would make me an insufferable person, and second because then I would start humming "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" and would not be able to get it out of my--AAAAGH, IT'S ALREADY HAPPENING.
[Psssssst! Ok, don't be alarmed, but I seriously have no idea where this post is going, you guys. I'm over a month late to jump on the Bret Michaels brain hemorrhage train (which is a terrible idea for a Disneyland ride, in case anyone was thinking about it), so I think this may just be an incoherent rambling loosely inspired by puberty and an 80s power ballad. Bear with me. I'm trying to think of a way out.]
Hey, look! I think I see Cher!