Shut it. You don’t get to talk anymore, you don’t get to talk ever again.
Your ass is mine until I say otherwise. Congratulations.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
I want you to drink this and try really hard to act like you aren’t scary and damaged.
I’m all glue back together now. I make no apologies for how I chose to repair what you broke.
This might sound random, but wear underwear with pantyhose. I know it might feel a little bulky, but honestly, it’s a little slutty not to.
Maybe I’m a pig. Maybe I’m an ass. Maybe I’m a vermin like everybody says. But I tell them the truth. It’s the one thing that I’ve got going for me. And you don’t get to take that away from me and call it a lesson, sir.
I grew up in a trailer park and I am not above kicking your pampered little Beverly Hills ass. And I do mean physically kicking your ass.
Holy mother of destruction.
I think you’re charming in that talented, neurotic, overly moussed hair sort of way, good for you.
I think you’re cocky, arrogant, bossy and pushy. You also have a God complex. You never think about anybody but yourself.
Look, I’m drawing a line. The line is drawn. There’s a big line. So, this line, is it imaginary, or do I need to get you a marker?
It’s too early for me to interpret “girl flip-out” into conversation.