My fore-parts, as you so ineloquently put it, have names.” I pointed to my right breast. “This is Danger.” Then my left. “And this is Will Robinson. I would appreciate it if you addressed them accordingly.” After a long pause in which he took the time to blink several times, he asked, “You named your breasts?” I turned my back to him with a shrug. “I named my ovaries, too, but they don’t get out as much.

Yeah, but what happens if life hands me pickles? - Bumper sticker

Since I had a soft spot for zombies and my curiosity was killing me, I opted for plan Z.

Okay, I'll strip. I'll tap dance. I'll sing 'La Cucaracha' in C minor.

There is a fine line between love and hate, or haven't you heard? Sometimes it's hard to decipher exactly which emotion is strongest." I raised my chin. "I don't love you either." He lowered his head and watched me from underneath his dark lashes. "Are you certain? Because the emotion pouring out of you every time I'm near you is certainly not disinterest." "That doesn't mean it's love." "It could be, I promise you. Take off that sweater and give me ten minutes, and you'll believe beyond a shadow of a doubt you're in love.

And," Amber said, practically drooling as she ogled him, "it's tradition for new arrivals to help with the pep rally." Brooklyn quirked her lips in doubt. "Tradition?" "It's a new tradition," Amber shot back. "Clearly the deeper meaning of the word has escaped you.

Don't judge me because I'm quiet. No one plans a murder out loud.