“I’ll start in the middle: Winter 2006:I’m sitting topless in the oncologist’s office on Valentine’s Day. Cancer is a bitch. It doesn’t give a shit about holidays.”

“On the coldest day of winter, I wouldn't give you the steam off my shit”

“Question for your life: If your face looked like your ass, and I’m not implying it doesn’t, would you consider invading Russia in the middle of winter wearing only shorts?”

“I’ll show you a fag, you little bitch. I’ll fuck-start your head!”

“I like that girl more than I can remember likin’ anything in my life. I’m not about to give her up. I’ll start carin’ about what other people think when I’m six feet under.”

“Then, Valentine’s Day came. There was a dance, and balloons and flowers and cheaply made rings and all sorts of lame teddy bears and stuffed animals, as if teenagers can be wooed with the same shit as five-year-olds. It was the Dietzes’ most hated holiday of the year, too, because it dealt with the consumerization of something sacred. Mom and Dad had agreed never to buy each other anything on the day. It was a false, Hallmark holiday. A sham. A moneymaking sideshow for insecure couples who didn’t have true love. I agreed with this, for the most part.”