“You need to wear this." Amelia holds up a chunky silver necklace studded with gemstones. I can't help scrunching up my face. It's one fugly piece of bling.”

“Before I was married, I thought the sound of bangles jangling on my forearms would be delightful. I looked forward to being able to wear bells around my ankles and silver necklaces around my neck, but not any more, not since I had learned what they represented for the man who gave them. A necklace was no prettier than a piece of of rope that ties a goat to a tree, depriving it of freedom.”

“What does he smell like?” “Smell like?” I scrunched up my face. “You know, he looks like he’d smell good.”

“[The] maid of honor - the unambiguous, grown-up equivalent of wearing best friend necklaces.”

“Another guy came in, and he said he was quitting his job at the Research Laboratory; said anything a scientist worked on was sure to wind up as a weapon, one way or another. Said he didn’t want to help politicians with their fugging wars anymore. Name was Breed. I asked him if he was any relation to the boss of the fugging Research Laboratory. He said he fugging well was. Said he was the boss of the Research Laboratory’s fugging son.”

“Yeah, sorry. I can't help my genetics. Take your frustration out on me if it'll make you feel better, but don't mess up my pretty face.”