“No, I’m done! I’m tired, I’m sweaty, I’m in agony, and why do I feel like I need to shit?”“It’s totally natural to feel that way,” said Grace in a placatory, calming voice. “Some women even have one during labor.”“What?” The word dripped with horror. “Women can shit when they’re in labor? Tell me that won’t happen to me! Don’t you let me shit, Grace!”

“They won’t really shoot us, will they?” Faith whispered as they started forward.“I’ll pretend I’m in labor if they do any funny stuff,” Angelina said in a low voice. “Pregnant women always scare the shit out of men.”

“Truthfully, if you want to remember me, do it now. I won’t give a shit when I’m dead.”

“I’m in love with you Renata. I know I’m not a poet – shit, not even close. I don’t have all the fancy words I wish I could say to you … but I want you to know that what I’m feeling for you is real. I love you.”

“It’s killing me, baby,” he says, his voice much more calm and quiet. “It’s killing me because I don’t want you to go another day without knowing how I feel about you. And I’m not ready to tell you I’m in love with you, because I’m not. Not yet. But whatever this is I’m feeling—it’s so much more than just like. It’s so much more. And for the past few weeks I’ve been trying to figure it out. I’ve been trying to figure out why there isn’t some other word to describe it. I want to tell you exactly how I feel but there isn’t a single goddamned word in the entire dictionary that can describe this point between liking you and loving you, but I need that word. I need it because I need you to hear me say it.”

“It’s like an inner struggle for me, between saying I don’t give a shit and trying to make it work. You want to do the right thing, but I’m sick of people thinking I’m difficult.”