“I punched him 14 times in the face, and he didn’t even try to hit me back. He wasn’t a pacifist, but he was already as dead as a slab of meat.”

“We're guys. I punched him, he hit me back, and then everything was fine. We went out for ice cream after.”

“He’d actually hit me! It didn’t matter that hitting me wasn’t really like hitting a regular girl and I’d be completely healed in a matter of hours. I was still a freaking girl, and he damned well knew it. I’d just have to hit him back. With a lead pipe. Or an eighteen-wheeler.”

“And he left. I watched him walk out – he didn’t say good-bye, he didn’t even look back. It scared me, how easy it was for him to do that.”

“When he sees me, he stops.His eyes widen, his face pales.And then before i can say anything, he's holding me.And the worst part is-I want to hold him.But I also want to slap him, hit him. Punch him. Tear out his throat.I want him to tell me what he did to me was a mistake. Some horrible mix-up. . .after I'm done holding him back.”

“Okay, yeah, he staggered back and fell into the condiments. Big deal. There wasn't any blood. I didn't even get him in the face. He saw my fist coming, and at the last minute he ducked, so instead of punching him in the nose, like I intended, I ended up punching him in the neck. I highly doubt it even left a bruise.”