Nicole Amakan

“I don't want to tell you how I know she isn't a real blonde. Guess.”

“His face is blotchy and his eyes are swollen, but is it because he's sorry I caught him cheating or is it the cinnamon and apples air freshener I just sprayed in his face? Who knows?”

“I fount cat puke on my pillow this morning. I don't own a cat.”

“Blah! This coconut cream pie tastes like ass and feet! I hate it when things are deceptively delicious-looking.”

“Touch me and I'll cut you.”

“I am also downgrading his pronoun from a 'he' to an 'it'.”

“Blah, blah, blah. Well, the coconut cream pie was a bust, which leaves the olives. Slippery suckers. I can’t seem to spear one with my fork. Maybe that’s because my hand is shaking with rage...”

“…I didn’t even mean to. I was half asleep and just flipping over in bed,” Rachel is saying, poking pensively at the broccoli on her plate with her fork. “And my hand accidentally brushed…over there. He just freaked out! He flung it away like—like…I don’t know. Like it was a rat or a spider. And he called me a pervert!”