“I rip off the wrapping and tear through the boxTill I end up with 45 new pairs of socks.”

“What do you think?" I whisper to Peeta. "About the fire?" "I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth.”

“People are supposed to accumulate, I thought, as they get older, but I seem to be sloughing off, like a person wrapped in a hundred layers of cellophane, tearing one layer off at a time, trying to get down to me.”

“His sniff rips a new piece off my heart.”

“What's up with you?" "I'm grounded," I say, just to say something real. "I told Mum to fuck off." He whistles. "Why'd you tell her that? Any other 'off' leaves room for parole. 'Sod off,' 'shove off'—even 'sock off' is still pretty satisfying." "You've told your dad to sock off?" "Once. He said, 'What the fuck is "sock off"? Be a man and tell me to fuck off.'" "So did you tell him?" "No. Because that was the trap. There's never time out for good behavior with 'fuck off.”

“There is no doubt about it, these animals are trying to destroy me mentally. Blows come in psychological form, ripping through my defences, tearing me apart internally. In the the face of this new but very effective game of destruction I cry like a child. Shattered!No injuries are apparent. What is going on, why?”