... fantasy is not practice for what is real—fantasy is the opiate of women.
Even the jerks earn some of our affection. We can be glad they're gone and yet still mourn the good parts.
What should I say? That I like him so much it hurts?
No more crying. It's all wetness and no comfort at all.
Wait, I want more green. I hope I did not imply I only wanted your colors. We can't turn a cold shoulder to green, and blue, and purple, for the sake of all ordered things, how can you dismiss purple? Celi, call Nom back and tell him of my need for purple!
A little snark, properly directed, can change the world.