You're the little spoon, aren't you?

People--stupid when they lived; potentially stupid when they died.

What're you still doing up? You know all good little ninjas should be in bed, visions of homicidal sugarplums dancing in their heads.

When life gives you lemons. . . You might as well shove 'em where the sun don't shine, because you sure as hell aren't ever going to see any lemonade.

Pick up your clothes. I am not your maid. How do I know this? A maid cannot kill you with a tube sock. I can.

Every inner touch, every one of its fingerprints on my brain, burned like acid. It shredded the walls of my soul like tissue paper, it clawed its way into my very center, I couldn’t tell anymore where it began and I ended. It poured into me like a river into the sea, mixing, melding, until we were one. One. For better or worse. Until death do us part.

They don't have to choose either/or. They can have their cake and mutilate it too.