“Touch me and I'll cut you.”

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

“…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!”

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

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

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