“Want me to flex my magic for you, baby?”

“I want you to love me like my dog does, baby.”

“All I want is to mess around, and I don't really care about, if you love me, if you hate me, you can't save me, baby baby, all my life I've been good”

“My new employer made me get a drug test, so I ripped off my shirt, flexed my muscles, and said, “You suspect me of taking steroids, don’t you?”

“It’s getting harder,” his breath caressed my cheek. “What is?” I asked.“To resist you,” his fingers flexed against me.”

“Love and marriage are about work and compromise. They're about seeing someone for what he is, being dissapointed , and deciding to stick around anyway. They're about commitment and comfort, not some kind of sudden, hysterical recognition'. 'That's not what I want. Disspointment and comfort is not what I want'. 'Why not? Because you expect it to be magical and mystical? Because you don't want to work?' 'Why can't it be magical? Why can't it be mystical?' 'Because if you count on magic and mysticism, then as soon as shit happens, as soon as life interferes, as soon as your stepson treats you badly, or your husband's ex-wife has a fit about something, or your baby dies, as soon as life happens, the magic will disappear and you'll be left with nothing. You can't count on magic. Trust me, I know. Sweetheart, little girl, you can't count on magic'.”