I’d just met a talking garden gnome and the nightmare version of My Little Pony.

He chose to eat his tart off my thighs, which I think we both enjoyed.

It wasn’t like humans were any better behaved toward each other. Look at their wars, their genocides, their weapons of mass destruction. Look at 4chan!

Come hell or high water, I will separate you from your man-business. I don’t care how, or if you kill me. If it means me, dead, holding your junk, I’ll take your junk. Got that?

I’d managed to snatch a few more hours of rest, which was all I needed, so I felt fine despite our marathon evening of debauchery.

I blinked at her, suddenly loathing her to the depths of my soul. Not only was she probably rather evil, and definitely thoroughly unpleasant, but she also didn’t read.

Your mother and I had a child because we wanted to share our love with someone, not because we wanted a nurse to take care of us in our old age.

It was when he was so casually clever, however, that I wanted to pickle his gherkin.

I wasn’t running now so much as stumbling quickly, panting like a geriatric lion.

People are heavy when they’re dead. I also nearly ralphed every time I caught a glimpse of the skin flap flapping, and I’d seen enough CSI to know that my stomach contents could be used to link me to the site.