"Christa, I’m concerned about how all your days are blending together into a bacchanalia of editing gay sex & not doing any writing. Your schedule is absurd & you speak to few real people over the age of 12 anymore. Something will need to change soon if you’re going to make it through the winter. Now come slide between my wide open thighs so I can hold you tenderly & convince you with my gentle hands to work less.”
"You are right about many things. Not Your Mother’s Beach Babe Salt Spray DOES help me achieve a more rugged, tousled look. Also, your legs are incredibly smooth. I notice these things. Now, make your crochet loops and knots while I whisper soft things to you as if you were a frightened horse. And never will I beat you with my belt for your transgressions; let us not speak of such."
"Sweater weather, baby. Let’s go walk that dumbass dog of yours and I can tell you stories about my depraved youth. I know you’ve got work to do but let’s just take this little break, okay?"
"Aww, baby. Don’t be like that. Look on the bright side! I’ve got no sleeves and there’s holes in the knees of my jeans and I’ve practically got my mullet fully grown-out now, so once you finish your stuff, we can play High School Make Out if you want. I’ll even buy you a deck of Marlboro Reds for old time’s sake."
"Go finish your edits. We’ll be here, defending what’s left of humanity. Then when you’re done, we’ll go eat coconut cream pie. Or take off our clothes for you. You know. Either way. Whatever you like."
'No. For the millionth time, no. I'm not cutting my hair. Just cos you hate hair all over your face, doesn't mean I do. And I like how it hides my ears. They stick out a bit and sometimes I get self conscious about it.'
Trish. Dude. You’re overthinking it again. Relax, have a burrito, and then we’ll go skinny dipping, okay?
"Yeah, you can tell that Andrew Smith guy to shut it. My hair’s beside the point. The thing yall should notice about me are my fucking masterful arms. Not too big, but not insignificant. The Goldilocks of male biceps, if you will. Now get in this car I just fixed with my rough-around-the-edges know-how and lemme buy you an ice cream cone.”
"Jesus Christ. Stop. No. I’m done listening. Put down the potato chips, take a shower, rub that lilac sugar shit all over yourself, and then do your goddamn work. Hand to god, no one cares about all your little twinges and aches. You got indoor plumbing? Then I don’t want to hear you complain. No, I don’t want any gelato. Good lord.”